


Must Be The Truth

by kitsune



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bodyswap, Community: cottoncandy_bingo, Crack, Gen, Montreal Canadiens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-26 10:37:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1685312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitsune/pseuds/kitsune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Technically</i>, Carey Price is out due to injury for this round of the playoffs. But when the team needs his skills the most, he and Dustin come through for them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Must Be The Truth

**Author's Note:**

> "Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth."--Sherlock Holmes
> 
> For my Cotton Candy Bingo card square "hiding an illness/injury". Come hell or high water I'm getting this posted before Game 6, because I started it after Game 2 and I've already had to rewrite the ending each time after Game 3, Game 4, and Game 5!

Carey poked moodily at the ice pack sliding down one side of his outstretched leg. He resettled it and thought darkly about “accidentally” introducing fucking Kreider’s knees to his goalie stick in a future game. The doctors had already told him he’d be watching the rest of the series from the sidelines. He’d texted Buds “good luck” for Game 2 and sent a steady stream of complaints and medical updates to PK.

A trainer bustled into the room and announced, “Therrien wants to see you.” She took the ice pack away and re-wrapped his knee. He swung his leg down and cautiously put weight on it. When they were both certain he could support himself, he limped out. The summons was unexpected and made him nervous. Was there something he should have heard from his agent? They wouldn’t be talking trades yet, would they? Could they send him to the AHL? 

He knocked on the door of the coach's office. A jovial “Enter” alarmed him. That wasn’t the coach's voice, that was the GM. He shut the door behind him, with a distinct sense of entering the lion’s den. That the three men in the room all smiled genially at him only made him more anxious. Bergevin waved him to a seat. “Carey! Good to see you up and around. A terrible thing to have happen. Sit, sit.” He sat. “I don’t suppose you’ve met Premier Couillard yet?” The Premier reached over to shake his hand.

Now the situation had gone from stressful to downright bizarre. He reminded himself that he’d stared down Toews, Ovechkin, and Chara, who were bigger, tougher, and had worse beards than any politician could muster; he managed an anemic smile back. “Pleased to meet you, sir.”

Everyone settled back into their chairs and the Premier tented his hands as he said gravely, “Carey, your injury comes at a very difficult time.” No shit. “Your team needs you. Your province and your country need you. This is potentially an historic occasion and we feel the best chance for success lies with you. We have an opportunity here, and I hope you will step up and fulfill the confidence we all have in you. Authorizations have been made to access exceptional resources.” They all stared at him expectantly. 

“Uh…,” he had no idea what to say. An appeal to his patriotism and team spirit? Did they want him at Worlds? That didn’t make sense, even if he hadn’t been injured. Only losers went to Worlds, from teams that had already been knocked out of the playoffs. Uncertainly he said, “Well, of course, anything I can do to help the team, I will.”

The Premier beamed and announced, “Excellent!” He stood and they all followed suit. “Gentlemen, I rely on your discretion. The damage that could be done if news of this gets out…but to bring the Cup back to Canada, to Montreal, I feel we must seize this chance.” 

Bergevin excused himself to escort the Premier out, and left Carey staring blankly at his coach. “I don’t understand anything that's happened in the last 10 minutes,” he said finally.

Therrien nodded sympathetically and beckoned. Heading for the elevator he said, “The government has extended some financial and technical backing for a project we’ve been working on for several years, thus the involvement of the Premier. We needed his authorization, and he wanted to appeal to you personally; he's a fan. Remember to stop by PR later and sign a sweater.”

In the elevator he took out his keys, selected a small, oddly shaped one, and inserted it into a slot Carey had never noticed. A minute later the elevator juddered to a stop, and the doors opened to a scene straight out of a cheesy sci-fi movie. A wealth of computers, blinking lights, glowing screens, and a dozen people in lab coats darting like minnows from display to display.

The coach intercepted a clipboard-wielding woman. “Tell Dr. Despres that I’ve got Carey Price and permission.” Her eyes lit up with disturbing enthusiasm, before practically sprinting across the room to whisper intensely with a tall man. Both of them turned to stare at him hungrily.

The presumably Dr. Depres hurried over to them. “Excellent news, Michel! We’ll need to do some tests and calibrations, of course, but to think we will finally, finally see the fruits of our labors!” He was actually rubbing his hands with glee. Yeah, this wasn’t creepy _at all_.

“You aren’t going to try to clone me, are you?” Corey asked uneasily. 

Despres chuckled. “No, no, it takes too long to raise clones. The Canucks have been doing it for years. Twins, bah. As if anyone believes that. Now, if you’ll just come to my office,“ he said eagerly, “we’ll get started.“

His leg was starting to ache fiercely, so Carey was relieved to be shown into Dr. Despres’ cluttered office and sink into a chair. “Is it something bionic?” he wondered, prompted by hazy memories of childhood TV.

Despres waved this off just as dismissively. “Not our area, that's the Ducks. Why do you think Selanne’s retiring? By now he must be more than 50% cyborg.”

“Our research focuses on mind-body transfers,” Therrien interjected. “Your mind—your skills and experience—will transfer to a new body.”

“Where are you going to find a body with the conditioning level of a NHL goalie?" he asked incredulously. "One that doesn’t have, you know, someone in there already?” There was a knock on the door, and a young man stuck his head in. Fuck. “Hey, Tic,” Carey said hollowly. 

He smiled nervously at Carey with a little wave and politely greeted the others. Despres called in one of his technicians and sent her away with Tokarski with instructions to start initial transfer protocols.

Carey leveled a horrified stare across the office. “Seriously? Does he _know_ \--?” 

“Of course he does,” Thierren said impatiently. “There are some height and mass differences you’ll have to adjust for, but he catches left, he’s under contract, and in our system. He’s as good as we can get at short notice.”

“And he wants to play in the NHL,” Corey realized. He knew what it was like to be on the verge of breaking in, how desperate you got, how you’d do anything for a chance to impress the coach and make him remember you.

Thierren lifted a shoulder in acknowledgement and said, “I have a series to win and will use all the tools at my disposal.”

“What happens to him while I’m wearing his body like a rented tux?”

“He’ll be watching the game on a TV, holding an ice pack on your knee. It’s an exchange, Carey, not a one way ticket.”

Carey scrubbed his fingers through his hair, trying to think. This was crazy, but Coach was right. Modesty was a waste of time. He knew he was the best chance the team had, and for that he needed a body. “Alright, I have a few questions. And…fuck, Buds. Everyone thinks he’ll start. The guys will be pissed if he’s put aside for an untested rookie.”

Therrien frowned and said austerely, “That is a decision for the coach. Not any concern of the players.” He hesitated, perhaps thinking of Budaj’s popularity in the locker room, and conceded, “I’ll talk to Gionta and Gorges.”

He’d pushed that as far as he could, so Corey turned to Dr. Despres. “Tell me what’s going to happen.”

“It's all been theoretical up until now, so we’re very excited at the opportunity." No kidding. This level of enthusiasm was kind of scary, and that was coming from someone whose baseline was hockey fans in Montreal. "There’s a maximum of one session every 48 hours, so Tokarski will have to take practices and hopefully anyone who notices a difference will assume it's nerves. You’ll be able to do the warm up and the game, but as a safety measure the process automatically reverses itself after 6 hours. If the game goes to multiple overtimes you may have to fake an injury so we can get you off the ice. After the transfer, there’s about two minutes of disorientation while you adjust to the current body.”

Carey was suspicious. “How do you know that if you’ve never done a full test?”

“We’ve built on some previous research by another team," Despres said evasively. "It’s several years old of course, and abandoned when they ran into problems, but it’s been a great help in accelerating our own work. Our processes are substantially safer and improved, no need to worry.”

When pressed, reluctantly Despres explained that the older research had started successfully, by transferring two different animals into each other's bodies, but ended disastrously after the first attempt with a human. They had swapped a goalie into the body of a Siberian husky and vice versa, but a power failure during the return transfer had turned off the equipment at a critical point, and left the human with only 85 percent of his own mind back. The experiment had been shut down, research abandoned, the goalie traded. “What team was this?" Carey asked in horrified fascination. 

Despres hesitated, then admitted, “The Flyers.” 

“Bryzgalov,” Carey knew instantly. “Holy shit--he’s 15% husky by volume.” Carey was nothing if not a team player, though, and this was for the Cup. “One last thing,” he demanded. “I don’t want to see my own body after I transfer. It’s just too weird.” 

With that agreed, they moved onto the calibrations and measurements necessary to make sure both he and Tic ended up in the right body with all the pieces of the correct mind intact. Carey didn't really relax until he had surreptitiously checked there were back up power sources for every piece of equipment. 

On Monday he and Tic traded fist bumps and back slaps before separating for the procedure, reassuring themselves and each other by treating it like game prep. As Tic headed over to his curtained area, he reminded Carey, "And don't forget to tap the posts when we score." Carey solemnly swore to remember, on goalie honour. You always treated other goalies' superstitions respectfully, no matter how strange they sounded. 

The scientists quickly attached the necessary equipment, then there was a loud hum and the smell of burning rubber. He levered himself up on an elbow, but had to flop back down for a minute, forearm over his eyes to block out the spinning room. Everything was a little too loud, the colours and smells were a little off. He opened his eyes and sat up again, slowly, knowing Tic would be doing the same in another room. Carey spent a few minutes having his reflexes tested and becoming used to the lower height and lesser weight of the new body. Nothing would help him acclimate as fast as actual use though, so he hurried up to the locker room and geared up, avoiding his teammates as much as possible. Fortunately they assumed he was either intimidated as a rookie or just a goalie getting in his zone, and by the time they left the ice he felt in control and looking forward to the game. It was going to be great to get back on the ice.

Or not. Terrible, disastrous, calamitous, and every other word for bad news in the English language. Warmup had been against guys whose moves he knew intimately, but practice could never reach the intensity of playoffs. In the heat of the game his limbs were never quite where he wanted them, he couldn’t control the rebounds, and he might as well have not even bothered trying to block the 5-hole. He slunk back to the locker room feeling worse than if he'd lost in his own body, because Tic would be getting the public blame for this one. 

Like Cinderella with midnight looming, he pulled off his gear and didn't even shower before going back down to the scientists. The transfer would reverse regardless of where they were, but it wouldn't be fair to Tic to make him come back to consciousness alone in a therapy room. It was better to do it in a controlled environment anyway, so everything could be recorded and measured as it happened. He opened his eyes, again feeling like he had a hangover without even having had the fun of drinking first. His knee didn't feel too bad, so Tic must have been diligent with the ice packs. 

Tic stumbled out from the curtained area and saw Corey waiting. He plucked the soaked underarmor away from his chest disgustedly. "You couldn't have showered first?" 

Carey made a face. "Too weird, man. I don't actually want to know that much about you." He hesitated then continued, "Listen, I'm sorry you're going to hear about the shitty play."

Tic nodded. "It's cool. I knew that might happen." He gently punched Carey in the shoulder. "The next one will be better."

Against all expectations, Carey found himself comforted. Only another goalie really understood how you had to condense your self-blame and anger so you could forget it and move on to the next goal, the next game, with a clean slate.

With a successful transfer and reversal achieved, the scientists put together a portable version of the equipment for shipping to New York. A few saves into game three, he found his rhythm, and suddenly everything was under control. Success begat confidence, and after the game it was only Bergevin pulling him aside after the presser that reminded him he needed to get out of public view before the transfer occurred. They exchanged hockey hugs and high fives afterward, then Tic went for a celebratory drink with the team and Carey went to bed, fizzing with victory and hardly noticing his knee.

Game four was a frustrating loss, but Carey felt increasing confidence in his control of the borrowed body. Game five was a wild roller coaster of a win to keep the team's hopes alive, and when PK swooped in at the end to exuberantly kiss his cheek and say, "Instead of a triple low-five, eh?" he wondered for the first time just what the coach had said to Gionta and Gorges. Maybe he had exercised his discretion, because while he got back slaps and congratulations in the locker room, anyone who spoke to him carefully didn't say a name. That wasn't his business, though, as the coach had made very clear. It was routine now to shuck the pads quickly and hand over to Tic until the next game.

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Listening to last few notes of the national anthems, Carey took a moment to marvel at the way it seemed commonplace now to step into another body and hit the ice. He pulled Tic's mask more firmly over his head and settled into his crease. His knee was improving day by day, and he would be ready for the finals in his own body. Game six was critical, though, if there was to be a game seven and beyond, and the team needed his best.

This was where they evened the score, and he was readier than ever.

**Author's Note:**

> I am being grossly unfair to Dustin Tokarski who, I am sure, won and lost the games entirely on his own merits. 
> 
> All research done via the internet, so I apologize for any inaccuracies regarding Canadians and Canadiens, and am happy to make corrections. Yes, the one about them not actually doing bodyswap research has been pointed out, but... _are you sure?_


End file.
